


Guest Relations

by jedusaur



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Rimming, accidental hooker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:09:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedusaur/pseuds/jedusaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Bitty runs the kitchen at the Raleigh hotel where the Aces are staying, and Parse mistakes him for someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guest Relations

**Author's Note:**

> you ever go through your gdocs and find something titled "Untitled Document" that turns out to be a full-blown AU fic from five months ago that you have absolutely zero memory of writing? it happens to me disturbingly often. anyway: here's a gift from past!me. (probably. might just be the gdocs elves.)

“Here’s the half-caf low-fat extra-hot latte sugar on the side for His Majesty in 806, here’s my apron for the night, and if anyone tells me the Canes-Aces score before I have a chance to watch the game they _will_ regret it because I have habaneros in tomorrow’s produce order.” Eric wags a stern finger at the rest of the kitchen, which at this hour consists entirely of Lauren and the dishwasher, Manny.

“Canes lost, they always lose,” says Lauren, and ducks his swat. “Whaaat? I didn’t tell you the score!”

“Get your ass up to 806 before he makes me remake this monstrosity,” Eric commands.

She grabs a napkin roll and hip-checks the button on the service elevator, grinning at him innocently.

“She doesn’t know they lost, right?” Eric asks Manny as the door closes behind her. “She’s messing with me. She’s been working nonstop since the game ended, she couldn’t know unless a guest told her.”

Manny--who has no interest in hockey, Lauren, Eric, or human interaction--shrugs.

“Well, I don’t care, if we did lose she’s burning her tongue on the staff salad tomorrow.” Eric hangs his apron up on its hook in the corner, and then realizes something. “Oh--damn, did she just take dinner utensils up there?”

“Yup,” Manny confirms.

No one that picky about a coffee order will be happy stirring it with a fork. Eric sighs and snatches up a spoon.

Lauren is waiting for the elevator on the eighth floor. “You’re not gonna believe who’s in 806,” she says.

“Whoever it is is gonna want this,” Eric says, holding out the spoon.

She steps into the elevator. “You should go give it to him.”

“I’m off the clock!”

“Trust me.” She nudges him out into the hall.

Grumbling under his breath, he finds the right door and knocks. If it’s a hockey fan who’s about to spring a game recap on him, he’s scheduling Lauren for opening shifts every day for the rest of the month. See how funny she thinks she is when she’s pitting mangoes at five in the morning.

The door swings open. It’s Kent Parson. Shirtless.

“Uh,” says Eric.

Kent looks him up and down and says, “Perfect. Come on in.”

Eric has no idea why he’s being asked inside to deliver a spoon, but it’s _Kent Parson._ He comes on in.

There’s water running in the bathroom. Kent closes the door and snags him by the collar. “I was just getting in the shower. You don’t mind joining me, do you?” He tugs Eric into the bathroom by his shirt, hard enough that Eric stumbles into him, and then all of a sudden they’re kissing.

The spoon clatters off the seat of the toilet and onto the floor.

Eric has never been so confused in his life, but he is not about to question the Lord’s will. There are opportunities in life one simply does not pass up, and those opportunities include Kent Parson stripping off one’s clothes, squeezing one’s behind, and whispering into one’s ear, “Go get that perky little ass ready for my tongue.”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t slip and crack his head open diving for the complimentary travel-size body wash.

He’s barely done rinsing off the lather when Kent steps in with him. Eric should probably try to be sexy or something, but all he can do is stare. He’s seen Kent nude in the Body Issue, but it’s like the Grand Canyon--nothing could possibly have prepared him for the real thing. And Sports Illustrated didn’t show the goods, either. Eric is transfixed.

Kent smirks. “Not your usual, hm?”

Eric doesn’t have a usual. He’s had one boyfriend--closeted, terrified of being outed, broke up with Eric because he acted too gay in public--and one thoroughly unsatisfying drunken hookup who kissed like he was licking spilled filling out of a pie tin. This isn’t even technically sex yet, but it already feels like it’s on a different plane of existence from all the other sex he’s had. 

Kent steps up to him, licking a long stripe up his neck and biting his ear. Eric can’t help letting out a whimper. Kent makes a satisfied little sound right in his ear and turns Eric around by his shoulders, still sucking on his earlobe. The tiles are cold against one of his nipples and warm on the other, where the spray has been hitting them. Eric presses his palms against the wall above his head, trying desperately not to squirm too much as Kent licks back down his neck and over his shoulder blade, along his spine…

“Oh my dear sweet lord in heaven.”

Kent huffs out a laugh. “I fuckin’ love the South,” he says, and goes back to work.

Eric half-expects him to stand up and shove his cock in as soon as Eric’s ass is loose enough, but he doesn’t. He stays on his knees, enthusiastically pumping his tongue in and out of Eric’s asshole, until Eric gasps, “You keep that up much longer and I might lose it all over the wall here.”

Kent immediately pulls away and purrs, “Oh, no. Don’t do that.”

Eric bites his lip. That smug, cocky voice, familiar from dozens of pre-game interviews, telling him not to come. It’s almost too much to take. But he’ll survive somehow, because the alternative is never knowing what comes next, and that is simply not an option.

Kent turns him back around--the manhandling, Eric had no idea he would love that so much--and whispers in Eric’s ear, “Go dry off and get on the bed. Ass in the air. Wait for me.”

Eric does as he’s told.

Kent comes out of the bathroom a minute later and hums his approval. Eric is quivering a little. He’s done this before, but only with someone he trusted to go slow. He’s beginning to realize that he really has no idea what he’s getting into here.

“You look so good,” Kent says. He gets on the bed behind Eric and runs a hand from his upturned ass along his side and back, down his thigh and back. “Look like I could break you, damn. Should I go easy, or do you like it rough?”

Eric breathes a quiet sigh of relief. “Start out gentle and stay tuned?” he suggests, half-muffled in the comforter.

“Will do.” The pop of a lube cap, the ripping of foil, and then Eric feels fingers rubbing slick along his asscrack. True to his word, Kent goes easy--almost too easy, withholding pressure until Eric asks for it, _okay, now harder, yes_ , and then he keeps on fingering until Eric is begging for his cock.

“Yeah?” Kent says, teasing. “You want it?”

“Please,” Eric moans, and then _finally_ Kent sinks into him.

Eric has fantasized numerous times about having sex with NHL players. (Mostly Hurricanes, but Kent is hot enough to have made an appearance or two.) He’s considered the benefits of sleeping with professional athletes. The cardiovascular stamina. The butts, of course, although Kent seems more interested in playing with Eric’s than his own. The size difference--lord, Eric loves a man who just engulfs him. 

But it has never before occurred to him, not until Kent’s cock slowly slides all the way into him, that fucking an NHL player would mean being able to feel sharply-defined abs pressing up against his buttocks. And it has never before occurred to him, not until he starts thrashing and begging Kent to fuck him harder, _harder_ , that all that solid muscle could just lift him up by his hips until his knees aren’t even touching the bedspread as he’s getting fucked.

Eric is ruined. He will never be able to have normal sex with a normal mortal man without comparing it to this, and there is no possible way it will measure up, and it will be worth it. One hundred and ten percent, as present company might phrase it.

Kent comes first, grunting as he stills. He lowers Eric back onto his knees, carefully not pulling out, and reaches around to jerk him off. It doesn’t take long before Eric is spilling onto the bedspread, sending silent apologies to Rosie down in housekeeping.

Kent eases out of him and collapses, and Eric gets about twenty seconds of afterglow before he says, “Damn. I don’t know where Anna finds you guys, but I hope she never gets out of this business.”

“Um,” says Eric. “Hang on one sec.”

He hurries into the bathroom and tugs on his clothes, because he’s pretty sure he’s about to get tossed out into the hallway and he’d rather be wearing pants for that.

Once he’s dressed, he sidles back out and says, “So, Mr. Parson... I’ve had a wonderful time, but I was certainly not expecting it and I have no idea who Anna is.”

Kent props himself up on his elbows. “What?”

Eric scoots a little toward the door. “I run the kitchen. I was just bringing you a spoon. For your coffee.” He gestures at the mug on the bedside table, which is definitely no longer extra-hot. “I think it wound up under the bathroom sink.”

Kent sits up all the way. “So... you’re not Chad.”

Eric giggles nervously. “Do I look like a Chad?”

“And you know my name. And the NDA in my e-mail, signed by Chad, does not legally bind you to a damn thing.” Kent covers his eyes with a hand. “Shit. That explains why you showed up so fast.”

“I’m not going to out you!” Eric hastens to reassure him. “I’m all about everyone coming out at their own pace. I’ll sign an NDA if you have one on you, or the business center on the mezzanine level opens at six AM if you need access to a printer--”

“It’s fine.” Kent shakes his head. “I’d fuckin’ deserve it anyway. Okay, so then you didn’t get my deposit either. I think I only have a couple hundred in cash… let me write you a check?”

Eric can actually feel his eyes bulging out. “Um. No thank you.” He can’t fathom charging _more_ than a couple hundred dollars for the best sex of his life, if he were going to charge anything at all, which he isn’t. “I’ll just… you know, Chad will be here any minute, so...” He takes another few steps toward the door.

“Wait,” says Kent.

Eric pauses.

“You were into it, right?”

Eric doesn’t trust himself to express how into it he was without humiliating himself, so he just nods.

Kent gets up and comes closer. “Do you think,” he says, backing Eric up against the wall, “you might want to do it again sometime?”

Eric tilts his face up, hoping for another kiss. Kent holds back, teasing, his breath ghosting over Eric’s lips.

“You’re not going to play a Canes home game again for another two years,” Eric says reluctantly.

Kent laughs a little. “Of course I would fuck the one cute little gay chef in the South who knows interconference scheduling cold,” he mutters. “God, what a day. That game--”

“LALALALALALALALALA,” Eric yells in his face.

Kent jerks away from him, banging his elbow on the corner of the wall. “Whoa, what the fuck?” he demands, rubbing his arm.

Eric ducks his head, embarrassed. “I, um. Haven’t watched it yet. Don’t spoil me.”

Kent stares at him openmouthed for a second before cracking up.

“I was looking forward to it!” Eric folds his arms defensively. “Stop laughing at me! I can still decide to take this to Deadspin, you know!”

Kent kisses him, all messy and sincere, and says, “You ever been to Vegas?”

*

Eric watches the game on Kent’s laptop through the NHL’s game tape app for players, which has a whole mess of great replay options and camera angles. It turns out the Canes lost after all.

He decides to spare Lauren the habanero.

**Author's Note:**

> [there's a lil epilogue in the comments about Chad](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/101656978)


End file.
